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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489723">and it's sure to be the death of me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells'>soundthebells (kosy)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Discussion of Not-Them/Not-Sasha, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Mid Season Three, Mostly Unresolved Romantic Tension, Photos, Referenced canonical character death, The Nebulous Idea Of Work Holiday Mixers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:42:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a picture from a work holiday mixer; he knows that the second he sees the background, decked out in obnoxious red and green party favors. It was the sort of thing that’s billed to everyone as a catch-all holiday party, but if you attend, you're doing so with the expectation of Christmas sweaters and eggnog and a soundtrack strictly comprised of carols and sort of weird looks if you try to wish anybody anything other than a happy Christmas. Jon had gone strictly because it was his first holiday party as Head Archivist, and he felt it would be in poor taste not to at least show his face for an hour or so. He’d had full intentions of just getting himself a drink and sequestering himself in a corner until Elias saw he was there, they had a typically awkward conversation, and he could leave hours early knowing that his boss had at least seen him try. Or pretend to try.</p><p>There are four people in the image. Jon looks at them, one by one, forces himself to block out everything else and just—focus.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and it's sure to be the death of me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi there! hope you enjoy reading this :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes Jon over two months after the tunnels to find the photo. </p><p>For obvious reasons, it hadn’t been his main priority. There was—well, there was a lot going on after Leitner’s death, and it seemed like a waste to pour so much time into something so sentimental in nature. And he’d tried not to give in; he’d resisted the pull for as long as he could bear and tried to let it go, shoving what he knew into the back of his head. But he’s never been skilled at letting things go.</p><p>It’s this fact: the Not-Them cannot change records that are not digital. </p><p>There were the tapes, of course. That had been something, hearing her voice again. <em> Again. </em> A—hah. A strange thought. He didn’t even have any <em> memory </em> of that voice. Felt no spark of familiarity, hearing the way the words lilted, afraid but defiant. He had tried to imagine them coming from a face he also didn’t recognize, laughing with him over her coffee from the breakroom (would the real Sasha have liked coffee?), grimacing as she accepted a particularly unglamorous assignment, playfully teasing him with Tim at the bar they went to each Thursday. It hadn’t done much. Mostly, he just felt sick. </p><p>If he could just <em> look at her face— </em></p><p>Jon wants so badly to believe he would know it on sight. </p><p>It hurts, knowing how intangible memory is. It hurts worse knowing how easily it can be warped and twisted by unseen hands. </p><p>He’s closing up for the night. The usual routine—flick off the tape recorder, tuck it into the top right desk drawer, lock up tight. Scan the walls, the shelves, the floor. Listen for the sounds outside his office (far-off typing and quiet footsteps, probably Martin’s; he keeps refusing to go home until Jon does. He has yet to decide whether he finds it annoying, creepy, or maybe just endearing in a vaguely annoying and creepy way). Check for that feeling of being watched, which is no longer quite so horrifying. Or is maybe more horrifying. He’s become complacent, he thinks, with the horrible threats that seem to hang perpetually over him. Funny how that happens. </p><p>Except as he shoves the recorder to the back of the drawer, his fingers brush something plastic and flat. </p><p>He jerks his hand back quickly at the unexpected sensation on instinct, as if burned, then shakes his head at himself, not sure if he should be amused or disgusted. He reaches in again, still tentative and careful, like it might bite him if he’s not cautious enough, and draws the object toward him. </p><p>It’s a photo, flipped over. It had been lying neatly in the back corner of his drawer for god knows how long, and he hadn’t so much as noticed. </p><p>The back reads “Happy Holidays From The Archives (2015!!),” written in clumsy Sharpie. He recognizes the handwriting as—</p><p>as—</p><p>He doesn’t recognize the handwriting at all. </p><p>The letters are loopy and oversized, not at all like Jon’s cramped, tilted scribbles or Tim’s utilitarian blockiness or Martin’s neat scrawl. He stares at those words for a while: the exclamation points, the graceful carelessness of each curved line. It shouldn’t rattle him as much as it does, he knows that, but the knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging his nails deep into his palm. He doesn’t even notice until he feels the wetness beneath the pads of his fingers. Blood. </p><p>He lets out a soft, shuddering breath, wipes his free hand on his trousers, and turns the polaroid over. </p><p>It’s a picture from a work holiday mixer; he knows that the second he sees the background, decked out in obnoxious red and green party favors. It was the sort of party that’s billed to everyone as a catch-all winter-celebration party, but you go with the expectation of Christmas sweaters and eggnog and a soundtrack strictly comprised of carols and sort of weird looks if you try to wish anybody anything other than a happy Christmas. Jon had gone because it was his first holiday party as Head Archivist, and he felt it would be in poor taste not to at least show his face for an hour or so. He’d had full intentions of just getting himself a drink and sequestering himself in a corner until Elias saw he was there, they had a typically awkward conversation, and he could leave hours early knowing that his boss had at least seen him try. Or pretend to try. </p><p>There are four people in the image. Jon looks at them, one by one, forces himself to block out everything else and just—focus. First at the leftmost figure, standing just a little further apart from the group than the others are. Himself, of course. Shorter than average and slim and a little stern-looking; he supposes some things never change. A haircut that was, at that point, still an almost-stylish almost-undercut—he hasn’t gotten it trimmed in so long now that it’s chin-length and shaggy, curling uneven by his ears. Only a few greys at the temples, barely noticeable. No scars, back then. No worry line between his eyebrows. No—well, alright, <em> minimal </em> shadows under his eyes. A slight smile on his face as he looks over at the others rather than into the camera lens. He remembers that pride, out of nowhere and suddenly overwhelming, of how far he’d come. He’d never thought he’d get to have something like this, these people to work with that he trusted and even sometimes managed to enjoy, even when the job was hell. Though, to be fair, back then the job was hell because his predecessor had been poorly organized. Now—</p><p>It was what it was.  </p><p>Standing just to the right, Martin Blackwood. Over a head taller than him, young-faced and alcohol-flushed. Dark, curly hair and large-framed glasses. Freckles. A wide, bright grin on his face that reveals just slightly crooked teeth. He’s got one arm slung around Tim, but he’s looking at photo-Jon, gaze so gentle and quietly happy that present-Jon almost has to look away. He doubts he’d done anything to deserve that kind of smile from Martin. He never really seems to. Still feels guilty when he catches Martin looking at him like that in the way he can’t quite parse. He’s been trying to understand. Himself. Martin. The way Martin looks at him sometimes, like Jon is the sea and he is a boat, like Jon is the moon and he is a dog, like Jon is a book and he is the reader delicately thumbing open the pages, like Jon is a hand and he is a mug of tea. Like Jon is his friend. Like Jon is something else that the word <em> friend </em> doesn’t quite define. Like Jon is something worth looking at. Like Jon is something worth touching. Like he always has been. </p><p>He is trying to understand.</p><p>He does not understand. </p><p>His eyes travel further over to Timothy Stoker. Tim, all perfect teeth in a winning smile, eyes crinkled up with mirth as he beams at the camera, raised brows, relaxed stance. He’s grabbing towards Jon’s hand, and recollection rushes back to him: trying to take a step away from the huddle as soon as the first flash went off, but Tim’d had a hand on his wrist as soon as he could so much as lean in the opposite direction, tugging him back into the group. That had been the second image, Jon little more than a blur as he stumbled into Tim with Sasha leaping back out of frame to avoid getting knocked into, and the photo had been propped against the computer on Tim’s desk for years before finally disappearing without fanfare. He’d noticed it gone just the other day, and had felt his heart drop into his stomach. </p><p>The third image, of Tim laughing and Sasha laughing and Martin laughing and Jon grimacing dourly at all of them, that one had gone to Sasha. </p><p>Sasha James, the real Sasha, stands next to Tim in this first photo. She’s… tall. Wears reading glasses. Has straight black hair, down to her lower back. She’s looking at the younger Jon, Martin, and Tim, mouth frozen eternally between smiling and talking. He can imagine her voice in his head, imagine what teasing jab she’s throwing their way, he <em>can</em>, but what he can’t do <em>remember</em> it; it’s just a pale extrapolation from the tapes of the Prentiss attack. He drinks it in regardless: the freckle on her chin, the wrinkles in her burgundy blouse, the practical analog watch on her wrist. This woman he doesn’t know but does know, wants to know, <em>needs</em> to know. </p><p>God, he’s going to lose his mind like this.</p><p>After he’d fallen against Tim, he’d shoved himself back, embarrassed but letting himself smile in reluctant self-deprecation. It was probably the alcohol, making him clumsy enough to allow himself into the orbit of these people.</p><p>(Before the photo, which Sasha had insisted upon with an intimidating brandish of her Polaroid camera, Tim had approached him in his designated corner spot and offered him a little bottle of airplane liquor. “C’mon, boss,” he’d said, cajoling. “It wouldn’t <em> actually </em> kill you to have some fun for once.” Which he knew. But he was in his twenties, far too young to be working as a Head Archivist, in charge of people older than he was and likely more qualified, and he couldn’t be seen as foolish, or carefree, or disreputable—</p><p>And then he’d caught Elias Bouchard’s eye across the room, saw that oilslick smile as he was midway through shrugging off his coworker, and Jon had quite deliberately plucked the bottle out of Tim’s hands.) </p><p>Yes, probably the alcohol. That would be why he was so content to let these three people crowd around him, all loud and bright and at least a little drunk, too, all so willing to be in his company, all happy and <em> together—  </em></p><p>He’s crumpling the photo with his fingers, so he sets it down gently on the desk and pushes it away. Reminds himself of the reality of the situation.</p><p>Tim’s not speaking to him. Sasha’s dead. </p><p>Martin is. Well. Still here, thank—whoever’s looking out for them other than the Eye (the Eye doesn’t care, not about all the rest of them. Which means he has to, now, he thinks). But it’s not the same. </p><p>A knock on his door. He flinches backward and nearly tips his chair over with the force of it, anxiety shooting through him unexpectedly as he lurches toward the door. </p><p>“Who’s there?” he snaps, gruffer than intended, and whoever’s on the other side is silent for a moment before speaking. </p><p>“I, um. It’s Martin?” Which he could’ve discerned from the<em> I, um </em> alone, to be honest. “Sorry.” </p><p>Jon sighs and leans his head against the door. “Come in, it’s alright, don’t apologize.” </p><p>“Right. I'm s—<em>right,”</em> Martin says, and inches inside, hesitant as ever. Jon sighs again, this time at least bothering to limit it to an internal noise. </p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks, pacing toward the desk. Without thinking, he shifts his hand to cover the photo, but Martin tracks the movement and edges closer, hands raised slightly as if moving to comfort some cornered wild creature. He doubts the motion is conscious, but it hits him like a blow just the same, that obvious, clumsy caution. About him. </p><p>Martin is over an arm’s length away, but Jon still feels crowded in. “It’s past midnight already; you should be getting home,” he murmurs, and his eyes are on Jon’s, but they’re on the concealed photo, too. “What’s wrong?” he parrots back, corner of his mouth lifting slightly. </p><p>“Why does anything have to be?” Jon snipes back, and he knows there’s no need for his harshness, but he’s exhausted and he can’t recognize the real face of someone he’d known for years and it’s beginning to truly sink in that the premature fatality rate of the archives is, as far as he can tell, one hundred percent. This job, it’s going to tear them apart and leave them for dead. Or, worse, make them anew. </p><p>Even closer now. “Well, nothing ever seems to be <em> right, </em> so,” Martin says, and the bitterness in his voice catches him off-guard. From so near, Jon can see the hard set of his mouth, the pinch of his eyebrows. If he were to lean forward, he would fall right against Martin, and he’s starting to think that maybe wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but of course that's the exhaustion talking. Martin looks tired, too, with bags under his eyes and his skin gone pallid from lack of sun. His hands shake now, Jon realizes. They tremble between them, held up in the air. Still, he’s so <em> solid</em>, in the sort of dithering way that is very much Martin. Always a hand on his shoulder right when he's about to fall. Always a meal brought to his desk just as the hunger pangs get so bad he’s starting to consider actually eating. Always a cup of tea when a statement has left him cold and strung out. Always a nervous, sad little smile in his direction after Tim snarls at him. Always there, always himself. </p><p>“Yeah,” Jon mutters, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, but he doesn’t know what else to offer so he lifts a hand to Martin’s forearm and squeezes lightly. The breath leaves Martin in a soft whoosh and he nods, quick and anxious but surprisingly certain. </p><p>“At least we’re still alive, right?” Martin tries, and Jon laughs dryly at that.</p><p>“Or something like it.” It sounds more weary than dry once he says it. He thinks back to the last time he had a full night of sleep or a full meal, comes back empty. He is starving, but not for lack of something to eat. The hunger just sits, not quite in his stomach but not quite outside it either. </p><p>Martin looks at him, then, with something that Jon can’t quite decipher, before just shaking his head and pulling Jon forward into a hug. He freezes, just for a moment, trying to remember—<em> God, that’s pathetic, Jon, even for you </em> —trying to remember how he’s supposed to react, what he’s supposed to do with this. It’s just that he’s not sure of the last time— <em> no, no, you’re not going down that road, </em> not tonight, not now, with Martin’s arms wrapped warm around the cardigan he’s been wearing for the last three days, and he knows he could feel every vertebra and rib through the fabric if he tries, but Martin’s not saying anything about it, just has his nose tucked into Jon’s hair and a hand rubbing gently at the back of his neck. </p><p>They stay like that for a long time. </p><p>Jon’s not much of a hugger. Never felt quite good enough at that or even cuddling; he’s too many sharp edges and knobbly bones. And after a little while, he always wants to move again, start fiddling with something (his hair and hands will do if he must, just as long as it’s something), start pacing, get impatient or inexplicably nervous. He’s just—twitchy. Easily crowded. Easily bored. </p><p>This is not like that. </p><p>Martin is warm and… stilling, in a way. Centering. Jon isn’t one for meditation, either, but this is more like pottery anyway—a force larger than yourself pushing you into place, into cohesion and settlement, with easy, assured power. Not gentle by any means; it doesn’t work if you’re gentle. But not cruel, either. And it just feels good. Good to be touched by somebody who doesn’t want to hurt him. Good to be touched because he wants to be touched, and Martin wants to touch. Good to duck his face into Martin’s sternum and feel that steady heartbeat against his forehead, to feel the softness of the jumper beneath his hands. Good to breathe, in and out, in time with somebody else. </p><p>He realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t want to pull away, and that’s what makes him do it, in the end. </p><p>Jon rakes his hair back out of his eyes, clears his throat. “I, uh,” he starts before Martin can say anything about it. “I found a picture.” </p><p>“Okay,” Martin says, arms sliding off of Jon’s shoulders without argument. His eyes are sad in a way that makes something in Jon echo back. </p><p>He holds it up and gives no further explanation. Martin’s inspection goes much the same way his did, Jon to Martin to Tim to—Sasha. Before the Stranger. Actual, real Sasha. </p><p>When he looks back up, his eyes are wet. “How did this—? After what Elias told us, I thought… I mean, that is Sasha, right? Th-the real one?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jon tells him. “It’s the real one.” </p><p>“God,” Martin hisses, and he presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. “I didn’t even think. I didn’t even think anything was wrong. For <em> months </em> . I don’t even know what to—d’you know, you know I lost my photo from that night? It wasn’t even that good of a night, Jon, but you kept yours, and Tim kept his, and I kept mine, because it was <em> us </em> , before everything, and we were okay and we were together. Mine was at my flat, at least at some point. I’m not even sure what I’d have done if I’d seen it before I knew about the Not-Sasha. But I can’t—something—fucking <em> anything— </em> ” He cuts himself off with a desperate noise. Not shaking apart yet, but something close enough to it that something twists in Jon’s gut, and he needs—he <em> needs. </em></p><p>“I know,” Jon says, voice hardly more than a whisper. “God, Martin, I know.” </p><p>Slowly, Martin’s hands come down from his eyes, and he fixes Jon with a stare that goes deep into him, far beyond the eyes. “Jon. We can’t lose anybody else.” His voice shakes, but he doesn’t look away, even for a second.</p><p>They have so many people to lose and so many things that want to take them away. </p><p>“I know.” He grabs Martin’s hands again and holds on tight; he can feel finger-bones crushed painfully against his and cannot bring himself to care. “Martin. Listen to me. I am not losing anybody else.” </p><p>Martin nods, motion jerky, and bends to kiss him, just once, on the forehead. It’s hardly even a kiss, just the barest press of slightly chapped lips against skin. He tries to disguise it by pulling him into another hug in the same motion, always warm, always a hand when they’re both about to fall. </p><p>Jon thinks he is beginning to understand.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i love season 3 jonmartin. so much sadness. so much repression. so little meanness. so little knowledge of the absolute Hell ahead of them. thanks for reading y'all! comments make me very happy if you feel inclined to leave one &lt;3 </p><p>p.s. i'm sorry if i messed up a timeline/canon issue! i did some research (read: frantically switching between three different tma wiki tabs before shrugging and typing what Felt Right) but it's totally possible i got something wrong, in which case you should feel free to correct me!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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